“I wish things had been different. I really do.”
“You were—”
“Yes, I was fucking someone else. That was my fault. If you want to keep repeating it, fine, I’ll go. But let me say this first. Please.”
“Fine.”
Her gaze flits to the floor. She stares at it for a long moment, like she’s expecting some sort of solace. “I still don’t know what happened. Not exactly. One day, you were my rock. I understood you perfectly. I knew what you wanted for breakfast. I knew what you’d say to my friends. I knew how you’d handle a bad day. And I knew I’d be okay if I woke up next to you.”
Her eyes meet mine for a moment. They search for something. Some sympathy she’s not going to find.
She continues. “Then… it started so long ago. After that trip you took to Madrid. You came back distant. You wouldn’t share the same way. You wouldn’t ask the same questions. When I talked, you were off someplace. Sometimes, at first. Then all the time. I should have said something then. It was still so small, but it kept getting bigger. I kept telling myself it was fine. That I’d handle it later, when work was easier, after the holidays, after I finished these doctor’s appointments. Then my mother got sick—”
And she was already pulling away from me.
I saw it then. I didn’t stop her.
That doesn’t excuse anything.
But—
I do know how that hurts. How much it hurt her, losing her mother.
How much it killed me, that she wouldn’t let me share that burden.
“I am sorry about Beth,” I say.
She nods a thank you. “By the time I was dealing with it, you were on another planet. I didn’t know how to bridge the distance. And David was there. He listened. He cared. He still looked at me like I was new and exciting.”
“I cared.”
“I know. I knew then. I just… I needed to feel it.” She presses her hands together. “It’s not an excuse. I should have done something to make you listen. I should have tried harder. But… I didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t there. I needed you and you weren’t there.”
No. That’s ridiculous.
I was—
I don’t know anymore. Her voice is honest, raw, vulnerable.
The Laura I knew. The Laura I loved.
So close. And different in some impossible to place way.
It explains everything.
And nothing.
It just happened.
What the fuck does that explain?
Where’s the godforsaken closure?
“Is that all?” I pick up the pen.
She presses her lips together. “I don’t know… I thought you’d have a response.”
“Why?”
“I just told you—”
“Why didn’t you try? Why didn’t you give me a chance? Why did you break my trust like that?”
She swallows hard. “Because it was easier. And I wasn’t strong enough.”
That’s the best explanation I’m ever going to get.
It’s not enough.
To erase this.
To forgive her.
To unlock the safe hiding my heart.
I have to find that somewhere else.
I sign the paper. Push it to her. “I understand.”
She nods. Accepting my response. Finding no solace in it.
I suppose that makes two of us.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Eve
It’s there. On the page.
The brilliant words of Margaret Atwood.
And Ian’s writing in blue ink.
Is this the place where she falls in love? Or is it later?
It doesn’t make any sense. Not as a comment on the book. It’s not a scene about Offred’s husband Luke. Or her would-be lover Nick. She’s not remembering her family. Or asking if her husband is dead, wounded, free?
The comment makes no sense.
Unless…
No.
A few months ago, I did a full re-read on my site, Original Sin. I went through the book, section by section, diving into my favorite scenes, trying to find meaning in every word.
I devoted a lot of text to this one.
Called it the place I really fell in love, on my first read.
I’ve talked about the book a lot. To anyone who will listen. And I do have this very obvious tattoo on my arm.
But I’ve never discussed this scene with Ian.
Or have I?
I talk about this book so much. It’s easy to forget. Like my tea every morning. I don’t remember any specific chai latte. Just the taste of cinnamon and cardamom.
I turn the page. Skim his writing. Comments about the book. The scene. The place in society.
Then another one.
From experience or imagination?
A scene at a brothel.
I talk about my job. At Devil’s Point. I don’t say the club, but I’m not shy about the details. The men who think twenty dollars buys them free rein. The assholes who treat me like a challenge—maybe I can get her to show me her tits, at least. The jerks who rate dancers’ bodies on a one to ten scale.
Yes, working at that place put this book in a new light. It opened my eyes to all sorts of things I tried to ignore.
But Ian…
He knows I worked there.